The Potions Master's Apprentice
by ArchArtistWriter
Summary: See that title? Tells you so much, don't it? Unexpected, is what most of the staff - save for Prof. Sprout and Lupin - say when they see who Snape's chosen for his apprentice. See how the boy's magic develops. Blah. Sequel to Beneath The Silk
1. Default Chapter

I was inspired. Truly. lol. A Severus/Remus fic for those waiting for a Beneath the Silk update.  
Chapter One.  
  
The fact was, Neville thought gloomily to himself as he walked up a staircase to the Gryffindor Tower, that his Grandmother could screech as long as it made her happy, and no one would consider him as anything more than a highly accident-prone, less than able, worst of the worst of wizards.  
  
Whenever he began to think more of it, the depression would gnaw away at him.  
  
Because he had kept his head down for the whole of his journey upstairs, he hadn't fallen through any trick steps, but he had run straight into a seventh year Slytherin who snarled at him and roughly pushed his way past. Neville didn't respond. What would be the use?  
  
The minute he entered the Gryffindor Tower, everything would change.  
  
He didn't care if Harry Potter only stayed around him because he felt sorry for him. He didn't care if Hermione wasn't really being so helpful out of the kindness of her heart. Whenever he stepped into the Tower, all the depressing thoughts would vanish: Neville the Longbottom was a nobody; Neville Longbottom, the Gryffindor boy was somebody: one of many. That was what he delighted in. And sorrowed in, of course, but usually, it would uplift him.  
  
As it did now.  
  
He would watch his fellow Gryffindors with a blissfully detatched eye. He would laugh at their jokes if they were funny enough, sympathise their problems if they were serious enough: He was as one of them as one could be.  
  
Pretending not to notice Harry, as he usually did, he sat down next to one of the windows. He got out the book Moody had given to him two years before. He began to read.  
  
Plants fascinated him: Neville could identify himself with them, something he couldn't do with humans, or at least, not as well. Their slow, steady growth he understood and sensed whenever he was near them. Their need of the Sun and of the nutrients within the Earth and - more specifically with magical herbs - the natural magic that sustained the Earth and ran through it.  
  
He could feel their life: he would smile at the touching naivity of the young sapling, who was so busy trying to consume every single beam of sunlight, it sometimes forgot that if it grew too quickly as it basked, it would simply keel over.  
  
The strange wisdom of the giant elders was comforting. The knowledge that their roots would entwine through the earth and protect and continue the flow of natural magic maintained his cheerful nature.  
  
And no one else could understand.  
  
Once, in their first year, he had had to do a detention in the Forbidden Forest with Harry Potter, Hermione and Draco Malfoy. He remembered as he stepped into the forest, he could hear the ancient, magical pulse to the grounds. He remembered their song: of weather storms, of unbalanced magical powers, of the need to take as much water as was possible, of the need to reach out and greedily absorb the sunlight that they could. As much as the songs were of individuality and the harsh methods to survival, they were also songs of communal growth, songs from the elder trees to the saplings, giving them advice of how best to grow their roots, their leaves, their barks. Songs to tell the saplings of what sort of blossom brings the most buzzing things. Songs of their history. Songs of their future as only trees could see it: in seasons.  
  
So taken in with it had he been, that he hadn't realised Draco drop in step behind him, ready to creep up on him and say...  
  
Neville shook himself.  
  
He was so clumsy, though: so stupid and thick. He could barely do simple transfiguration. He was a coward. He was fat. He was...  
  
"Unsatisfactory!"  
  
That would be his Grandmother's voice, piercing through the still armour of his scholarly tranquility.  
  
He sighed.  
  
Lately, he noticed Harry look his way a lot. It seemed that he wanted to talk to him, but couldn't bring himself to.  
  
Neville understood. How could he not? Harry Potter didn't want to be seen that way. Neville honestly didn't mind. He had heard it as said from his relatives before.  
  
Plants.  
  
Yes, yes... back to plants...  
  
Trees were easy to understand. Bushes, shrubbery, non-flowering plants were too. The low-lying plants that gave forth flowers were simple as well, like trees in spring, with their precious blossom, exploiting their experiences of last spring to attract the bees. So vain, so pompous! Dafodills were sweet, because their flowers lasted for so short a perios of time. They weren't so arrogant. Roses were the worst. Neville swore that if they could walk, they would prick everyone in their path with their thorns, boasting of their pretty flowers all the way.  
  
Rather like Malfoy.  
  
Neville privately sniggered at this. The thought of Draco dressed up as a flower was very amusing: Neville thought of Professor Lupin with a thankful heart; the man had taught him how to laugh at the subjects of life.  
  
Fungi were so simple, they could end up seeming very complicated.  
  
They lived off the dead and the living. They needed warmth, moisture, light. Neville personally thought that pin-head mould was the most interesting. Hid Grandmother had given him a very severe telling off when she'd found mouldy bread underneath the precipices in his rooms.  
  
"Neville?"  
  
Longbottom looked up and smiled: what he didn't know, was that his smile was a very weak and shy one.  
  
Harry sat next to him.  
  
"You okay?" He asked, green eyes still.  
  
"What? Oh... yeah... I'm fine... just reading..."  
  
"That again?" Harry looked at the cover.  
  
"Uh-huh. It's very good." Neville couldn't admit that having read it so much, all he really was interested in now were the pictures.  
  
"Oh, okay. You know," Harry started, "would you like to come out with me 'n' Ron? Hermione will come too, if you want her to."  
  
Neville hesitated.  
  
He hadn't gone out with many students before, simply because none could really be considered of as friends.  
  
"Okay... Let me put my book away."  
  
~  
  
Now *that* was an interesting flower, Neville though to himself. He had never seen one inside the Hogwarts grounds before. It was probably why he didn't know the name.  
  
"Sorry, I'll catch up!" He called over his shoulder.  
  
The other three shook their heads. "We'll stay here," Hermione called.  
  
Smiling his gratitude, Neville walked up to the flower. He realised that it wouldn't be wise to pick it, because it was the only one of it's kind in the whole green. Taking a sketch book out of his bag, he got a pencil and quickly began to sketch, remembering where he was, so that he could come here again with his watercolours to encapture the clouring of the flower.  
  
With his back to them, he didn't see the slightly shocked looks on the trio's faces.  
  
He didn't notice anyone was in front of him until he realised that the blades of grass were singing their Dying song, the song they sang before returning to the earth. And it was very loud as if they were being killed partly due to magic.  
  
Basically, as if a wizard was stepping on the grass.  
  
A shadow fell over him.  
  
He looked up.  
  
Standing there, erect and dressed in his usual black, looking down an aquiline nose through curtains of greasy, shoulder length black hair, was Professor Snape.  
  
An eyebrow was raised.  
  
Neville began to stutter.  
  
He wasn't good with adults, not at the best of times. They either laughed at him, thinking he was being a dear, or would snap at him and critisise him. The only adult who hadn't - no, the only two adults - had been Professor Moody and Professor Lupin. For now, he could only wait.  
  
"Ermmm..." He hurriedly packed away his sketchbook and straightened up.  
  
Snape's eyes were still cool. The eyebrow was still raised.  
  
"S-sorry..." he gulped and scampered off to rejoin Harry, Hermione and Ron.  
  
*  
  
TBC... 


	2. Chapter 2

Set in the same... er... Universe as Beneath the Silk.  
  
The worst thing about having a successful first chapter is that you are terrfied that the second one will be absolute bull. At least, if you're someone like me, then you'd understand... ; )  
  
I don't particularly care at the moment - because I'm slightly tipsy, actually. Just had some of my mum's Nigerian palm wine. But I'm not drunk *hic* Not drunk at all... - if I've got the seating arrangements in their Herbology class wrong. But I will when I'm fully sobered up. *hic*  
  
*  
  
Chapter Two  
  
He was almost a Squib.  
  
There was nothing special about him. In fact, there was something decidedly *un*special about him. He couldn't even fly a broomstick because he'd get so scared of the height that he'd be scarce able to breathe. And then he'd faint. Which didn't help in the slightest.  
  
But here he was, in Greenhouse Three, with Professor Sprout nattering on about how to take care of whatever plant she was talking about, surrounded by songs and screams alike, all from the plants.  
  
He was only ever any good at Herbology, and that only barely. He'd be so busy getting his fingers stuck right into the moist, dark soil, ready to absorb the nutrients and moisture within it or listening to the Leashed song sung by all seeds and beans alike, that he would trip or spill something and then get scolded.  
  
His one talent, therefore, hardly amounted to anything.  
  
Throughout the lesson, Neville had hardly been aware of the fact that his hands were obeying the commands of Professor Sprout. His mind was on other things: what he'd really wanted to do was to talk to Mandrakes without dying.  
  
In their second year, he'd deliberately put on his earmuffs so that they didn't block out all of the Mandrake's screams. One of his more foolish moments, as one of his Aunts would say. He had tried to see if he could find something to share with them, as he did to most other plants, but he'd been so startled to find that many of their inly voices were so human, that he'd forgotten that baby Mandrake's screams were capable of rendering you unconscious and panicked.  
  
He had fainted.  
  
"I thought Snape was going to tell you off yesterday, you know," Hermione was saying. "The look on his face! He never smiles, that's the thing. Not properly at any rate." She poured a bottom-full of a test-tube of the thick, blue potion into one of the seed pots.  
  
Neville sighed in relief: unlike the orange potion and the green one, the blue one didn't react negatively with the seed at all.  
  
Hermione took out another test-tube. It was bottom-full of a lavender coloured potion. The colour immediately took Neville back to wandering the gardens at his Grandmother's...  
  
All the ugly herbs - and fruit trees, now he came to think of it - were aware that their pride was in their Deaths. Being only plants, they thought that by making their Dying song as spectacular as possible, they were achieving their true greatness. They didn't realise - particularly lavender - that it was their smell, mainly, and the very substances that coursed through their stems or the fleshy cases for their seeds, that made them so important. For example, Neville was sure that the only time he'd ever heard lavender be boastful, was when it was singing it's Dying song. Even then, their self-depraciating tunes of Life were still evident.  
  
They reminded him of himself, except for that he had no talents. Even if he were to die.  
  
**Stop that. You have Gryffindor now**  
  
As usual, his heart began to swell with pride.  
  
The Herbology lesson went on.  
  
~  
  
Despite the fact that he wasn't teaching here anymore, Neville always felt a bit braver whenever he knew that Professor Lupin was somewhere within the Hogwarts school grounds.  
  
"How're you getting on, Neville?" The adult asked, looking down at Neville with a gentle gaze. It seemed to Neville that something about Professor Lupin had changed. He was being too quiet, for one thing and any feeling in his grey eyes was muted.  
  
"Oh! Fine, Professor..."  
  
Lupin chuckled. "I'm not your teacher any more..."  
  
"Sorry, Prof-I mean, sir..."  
  
"Hm," Lupin was still smiling.  
  
At the end of his third year, Neville could recall the rumours that were flying around the school concerning Lupin. That Lupin was a werewolf, Neville still wasn't sure whether he ought to be believe it, though when he'd asked Hermione, she'd responded as if to reassure that Lupin really was.  
  
"Severus tells me that he saw you sketching a very rare flower, yesterday," Lupin continued casually.  
  
"Ermm... yes... I saw him..." Neville shrugged.  
  
"He was going to ask you a question, but you'd already run off," the man went on. "Surely you're not still scared of him?"  
  
"I'm not *as* scared of him, but he still..." Neville shuddered, then grinned aplogetically.  
  
"Well, that's something."  
  
"I suppose so," was the careful reply. It had often been used against the giggling Ladies with pink lips that his Grandmother would occasionally invite round.  
  
"Tell me: I know you have a book about the properties of certain herbs and various sea dwelling plants of the Mediterranean, am I right?"  
  
"Yes..."  
  
"And you've had it for two years running?"  
  
"Mmm... yes...  
  
"Ah... well, I was thinking," here, Lupin looked thoughtful, a slight frown on his face. "I've heard that you're proving very talented in Herbology... and I have a .. er... *friend* who could get you similar books, perhaps even at discount prices..." Lupin smiled at him. "If you want me too," he began again, "I could get you one of them; I'll get the bookstore's magazine that's got all their range in it," he looked expectantly at Longbottom. "That is alright, yes?"  
  
"Yeah! It's fine!" Neville grinned back . "Thanks!"  
  
"Good... I knew you'd really appreciate it, anyway."  
  
At that, they walked their separate ways. Howeve, Neville suddenly turned round and called out, "Who told you about that book, anyway, Professor?"  
  
With a smile in his voice, Lupin had replied, "A little raven told me."  
  
~  
  
McGonagall inhaled deeply, counting to ten as she did so. Neville knew why. He hung his head, knowing that his chubby cheeks hardly helped matters, especially when they were a flaming crimson.  
  
"Try again," she said simply, eventually, before striding off to show everyone how well Hermione had done.  
  
Why couldn't he have Professor Moodys and Professor Lupins to teach him all the time?  
  
And what was Lupin's little raven, anyway?  
  
*  
  
Sorry the chapters are so short. The minute Neville is apprenticed, the chapters get longer, believe me. Thank you very much for the reviews! 


	3. Chapter 3

Slytherclaw/Dovielr: some of the ingredients in 'The Potions Mistress' are read here - in the story in general -as well. I hope you don't mind, it's just that at times I get terribly unimaginative and all my names sound silly.  
  
Chapter Three.  
  
Neville entered the dungeon with a resigned aura about him that was so normal, no one cared anymore. Once again, he would be taunted and his low intelligence highlighted.  
  
The worse thing was that he really did try in Potions. He knew what each ingredient's affect was. It was simply hard for him to put it into practise. Everything was done in theory. They had to follow recipes, or at least, that was the impression given off by Snape. And Neville was too scared to try anything different.  
  
He stood at his cauldron apprehensively. Then, looking up to the board, he began to prepare the ingredients.  
  
Slowly, he made his way through measuring and seiving the Armadillo bile. Powdering the Unicorn horn was done meticulously as well: the plan was that if he was so slow, he wouldn't have time to actually attempt the potion. It never worked, though.  
  
He barely heard Snape whenever he would bully Harry and Ron. He knew that Harry didn't really care, so there was nothing to worry about.  
  
Yet, whenever Snape turned on him, it sounded as if the man had used an amplifying charm on his voice. Each word cut hard and deep in the most sensitive of places. His fingers would lose their grip, he would begin to fidget - the last time he had done it, he had tipped his cauldron over - he would add too many of one particular ingredient. It was horrible.  
  
He let the amythest dust crackle at the bottom of the cauldron and watched it combine with the oxygen to form small, shiny globules. He tipped in the Armadillo bile. Much too quickly.  
  
It splattered.  
  
Biting his lip, he tried to ignore the sharp sensations on his arms and continue attempting the potion. Snape, however, was near enough to see it.  
  
Risking a glance at the professor, Neville noticed that Snape was giving him the same weary look that McGonagall would: It seemed that now, like all the other teachers, the Potions Master had given up hope. There was simply no point in bullying him anymore.  
  
That was all the proof Neville needed that he really was pathetic.  
  
"May I go to the medical wing, professor?" He asked weakly.  
  
"Tch." Snape turned away. With an airy wave of a hand, he replied, "yes... of course you may." There was no expression whatsoever in that voice.  
  
With that, Neville practically ran out of the classroom, forgetting that the fire beneath his cauldron was still lit. He ran up the stairs, past the staffroom, only to bump into a man who was just coming out of it.  
  
It was Lupin.  
  
"What on earth--? Neville? Are you alright?" The grey eyes were frantic. "Why aren't you in your lessons?"  
  
"I'm going to the... the medical wing," he muttered miserably, trying to dodge past.  
  
Lupin would have none of it.  
  
"This isn't the way to the medical wing." He said gently. "What *is* the matter?"  
  
"Nothing!" Neville gasped: he hadn't meant to be so rude. Not to his favourte teacher, either. "I only... hurt myself... that's all!"  
  
"Well..." Lupin began, "I'm going down to the dungeons anyway... maybe it's best if you came as well... so we can go down together and I can ask Snape for some ointment and so we won't have to bother Madam Pomfrey, right?"  
  
"I-I..." Neville began to stutter. "Alright," he said defeated by the powerful affect of grey eyes.  
  
"Good." Was the firm reply. "Down we go, then..."  
  
Feeling even more miserable, Neville followed Lupin back dowsntairs to the dungeons. When they got there, Lupin knocked sharply on the door to the classroom of which Neville had just walked out. Neville could feel his soft cheeks burn.  
  
"Severus?" Lupin called.  
  
Almost instantly, Snape appeared. Then he saw Neville. With a slight frown and a raised eyebrow, he shut the door behind him. "Yes, Remus?"  
  
"You remember that conversation we had... some time ago...?" Lupin began, his voice sounding almost hopeful. Snape arched the eyebrow even higher. "Yes, well, I have someone I was thinking of bringing forward to you." Neville froze; what was Lupin trying to say? Gripping him by the shoulders, only slightly less firmly than before, Lupin went on, "will you consider Neville?"  
  
Snape's face didn't move. His shoulders hunched quickly as if he was letting out a derisive snort.  
  
"Neville."  
  
"Yes, Severus."  
  
Snape's eyes scanned the boy in front of him. Neville wanted to die. "That shivering, puling, witless, dunce of a boy?"  
  
Lupin made no answer.  
  
"Oh alright." Snape said impatiently. To Neville, he snapped, "come in here, boy. You need ointment."  
  
*  
  
Neville didn't know how to begin the letter. However, it wouldn't matter because then at least his Grandmother would be happy with something else to critisise him about.  
  
Dear Gran (he started),  
  
I am writing to tell you that one of my professors has considered me to be his apprentice. He is the Potions master at our school. His name is Professor S. Snape.  
  
It means that I will not be able to come back home for some of the Christmas, Easter and Summer holidays. I might also be coming home at different occasions from the other students. Professor Snape wanted me to tell you this now, so that you wouldn't worry.  
  
He also says that he will pay for the extra expenses of an apprentice: I will need new robes, you see, and certain assecories to show that I am not only an apprentice, but he is my apprentice-master. He wants me to tell you that apprentices get an allowance first from their masters and second from the Ministry of Magic via their schools. Therefore, you do not have to worry yourself over my finances.  
  
I love you all and thank you for eveything you've done for me.  
  
Remembering you always,  
  
Neville.  
  
"That's it?" Snape demanded. "Nothing about how your schoolwork is and how your friends are and how you've manged--to--fly--a--broom, perhaps?"  
  
Neville trembled slightly. "No sir--master..."  
  
"Sir," Snape replied tersely. He tapped a fingernail against the yellowed parchment. "Very well... something needs to be done about your handwriting... I'll need you to be able to write clearly for the labels and profesionally for certain documents." Snape scanned the letter again. "However... it is clear, polite and concise... no spelling mistakes.. Satisfactory." He put the letter down and turned away to his teacher's desk.  
  
Neville blushed in pleasure: something he had done was satisfactory!  
  
"You can go now," Snape said, without looking up from whatever it was that he was writing.  
  
Scrambling to put away his things quickly, Neville grinned a 'thank you, sir' and ran out again, for the second time that day.  
  
*  
  
He knew he was being watched by Harry, but he didn't care. Neville didn't realise that he had had a little weight taken off his heart, he was only thinking about his apprenticeship.  
  
When he went to bed that night, all he ever dreamt of were ravens and talking trees. And him. Standing in the middle of it all in apprentice robes, bare feet turning into roots, his body turning into a tree trunk, his arms, shoulders, hands, fingers and hair turning into branches that brought forth leaves.  
  
And out of a whole forest of trees, he was the only one with any leaves.  
  
~  
  
Review? 


	4. Chapter 4

Lucky Neville. He can actually dream. I can barely write the next chapters quickly. Blank. Blank. Blank.  
  
Chapter Four  
  
The only bad thing about it raining was that he was never allowed to go outside.  
  
It was now lunchtime and so far, apart from the letter he had written three days ago to his Grandmother, nothing had actually happened with him being an apprentice. Perhaps, he thought to himself, Professor Snape had forgotten all about the 'puling' boy that was Neville.  
  
He concentrated on eating his lunch, trying to listen to the usual chatter and at the same time, trying not to.  
  
Neville began to wonder what one actually did as an apprentice. He had, of course, heard of the really horrible cases where some apprentices would run away and would turn out to have been beaten of starved by their apprentice- masters (or at least, so said Great - Aunt Clement) and of really degrading tasks like washing their cloths or cleaning the floors with toothbrushes and only being allowed one bucket of cold water to use for a bath, but, despite his obvious fear of Professor Snape, he doubted that that would be the case for him.  
  
As lunch finished and the students gradually made their way out of the Hall, he decided not to finish the stew on his plate and join his classmates. The minute he was on the marble staircase, he heard someone call his name.  
  
"Neville!" It sounded like McGonagall's voice and when he turned round, he could see that it was her. She regarded him oddly with her beady eyes. "Professor Snape wants you in the dungeons now."  
  
"He does?"  
  
"Yes, he does. I don't know why, he wouldn't say." McGonagall sniffed as if to say that she didn't approve of Snape's apparent secrecy. "You haven't done anything silly, now, have you?"  
  
"No, Professor."  
  
She gave him another stern look. "Hm... In that case..."  
  
He nodded slightly and walked down towards the dunegons.  
  
When he arrived, Snape was waiting outside in the corridor, arms folded, leaning against the wall. As Neville came into his view, he slowly straightened up and went into the room. The door very nearly closed before Neville went forward quickly to enter the class.  
  
"Erm-- Professor?" He was about to say, before he noticed the tall woman with wonderfully pale skin and very dark hair, look up at him.  
  
"This is my neice, Leah," Snape started, jerking his head once in her direction. She gave a slight curtsey. From here, she didn't look so much older than Neville. And she smiled slightly as well. He attempted one in return. "Leah will be taking your measurements for your new robes."  
  
Leah blushed very lightly and looked down at the floor, shyly coiling a strand of hair behind her ear.  
  
"Could you, come here please?" She asked in a very quiet voice. There was a strange accent in her voice that Neville didn't know where to place.  
  
"Sure." He walked over to her and noted the black nailvarnish as she stretche dout the measuring tape.  
  
Swiftly and efficiently, she measured his outer and inner leg (Neville hoped that Professor Snape didn't notice both of them blush in the darkness), his waist, shoulders, arms and chest. The usual. When she was finished, she stood back and looked at the results that had been written down automatically by a rather nice looking quill.  
  
"It's just for the new folds, you see, she explained. "And the emblems etcetera."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Mmm..." She flipped over to another page. "Uncle Severus?"  
  
"Yes?" Leah didn't seem so nervous when talking to her Uncle.  
  
"Do you want me to sell off his old robes when I've finished with these new ones?"  
  
"That would be helpful."  
  
"I can get books too," she went on, very seriously. She had her Uncle's nose but on her, it seemed to accent her looks and make her all the more striking. "Or won't he be needing them?"  
  
"No," Snape replied after a few moment's of thought. "No, not for now."  
  
Leah nodded and began to pack away her things. Neville turned to the Potions Master. "What exactly will I do as your apprentice?"  
  
"As *my* apprentice?" Neville nodded. "You'll help me make potions. You'll be my right hand man of sorts. I'll be allowed to teach you certain ... well... they're *heritages*, I suppose you can say." Snape shrugged. "You can learn them and use them with my consent."  
  
"What else will I be able to do?" He asked, rather surprised by his own daring.  
  
"After a while, you'll be allowed to get certain packages from apothecaries on my behalf... manage certain accounts... join me on voyages in search of the arcane...." Leah giggled but looked away when Neville turned to glance at her. "That sort of thing..."  
  
Neville breathed. "I won't have to polish your shoes?"  
  
"I can polish them myself, thank you." Snape snapped, eyes flashing. "You're my apprentice, not my *slave*."  
  
"Yes sir." Neville began to fidget. Snape merely 'tch'ed irritably and nodded at Leah who said a small goodbye and walked out of the dungeon. Taking a cue from Snape, Neville followed her out.  
  
"Bye bye," she said to him softly. "I shall see you soon."  
  
"Yes... I suppose so," he murmured. "Bye."  
  
Leah looked up at her uncle, shared a glance then turned and made her way through the dark corridors, presumably finding her way out of the school.  
  
"She's nice," Neville heard himself say.  
  
"Isn't she though?" Snape sneered. His apprentice turned rouns with a jerk. "Really. At least stop that goddamn blushing of yours." Neville blushed even harder and cursed himself. Snape sighed. "Follow me," he said finally. "To my office."  
  
~  
  
"This is for you," he said simply, and handed Neville a plain, but well made, mahogany box. Neville stared for a moment, then decided to open it.  
  
The box was lined with velvet, a plush, purple velvet. Within the folds of the cloth was a simple, gold pendant on a chain. The pendant itself was an oval shape, wider at the top than at the bottom. It fitted perfectly inside Neville's palm.  
  
It was gold and upon the edge, was engraved a pattern of brambles. Towards the top, intertwined with a three pointed crown, was a six-pointed star that looked vaguely familiar to Neville, but he couldn't remember what it signified. As he ran his fingers on it, he saw that there was another engraving on the pendant - a castle in the middle of a desert, an eyes in the centre of it.  
  
He'd never seen anything like it. So simple, with no fancy jewels encrusted into it, but the detail put into the engraving and raising of the design was amazing. Neville looked up at Snape who shrugged.  
  
"You're my apprentice," he said in an answer. "That simply shows whose apprentice you are."  
  
Without a moments hesitation, Neville slipped it on.  
  
*  
  
TBC... 


End file.
